


The Dating Game

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Dating, Exes, First Dates, M/M, Nate POV, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, what, you want to <i>date </i>me?" Brad asked, tone decrying it as a sissy, junior high, New England WASP piece of sentimentality. </p><p>Which wasn't entirely off the mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dating Game

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Written for [](http://rositamia.livejournal.com/profile)[**rositamia**](http://rositamia.livejournal.com/) for [](http://4_a_star.livejournal.com/profile)[**4_a_star**](http://4_a_star.livejournal.com/). Many thanks to [](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ricochet**](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://pommederis.livejournal.com/profile)[**pommederis**](http://pommederis.livejournal.com/) for their fabulously insightful betas. All other mistakes are my own. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/623296.html#cutid1).

Nate took a swig of his beer and fought back a wince. Across the scuffed table, Brad was suffering through the Coors that was the best this beach shack of a diner could manage. Five minutes out of the Corps and here he was, going for a beer with his former Sergeant, as if there'd been nothing between them but the chain of command. Nate was a goddamn idiot. 

As if "going out for a beer" weren't the thinnest of pretenses. Nate should've just gone with, "Want to come to my place and fuck?" Brad would have appreciated the directness. 

Then maybe Brad's eyes wouldn't have been laughing at him since he'd sauntered into the diner. Brad, all long limbs and thoughtless grace, at ease in his skin, while Nate felt like clawing out of his own, like he didn't match the figure in the mirror. 

That would have let them skip this farce, but something felt...wrong about it. Nate didn't think of Brad as a booty call. Did he?

Perhaps Nate was getting ahead of himself. He'd asked Brad to join him for a beer. Now they were sharing a crappy beer and mostly not talking. This could be the extent of it. He'd enjoy Brad's company—or more likely, refuse to squirm under Brad's silent judgment—pay for their beers, and be on his way. Sex wasn't necessarily in the offing. 

As if Brad could hear Nate's doubt, he spoke up: "Really, sir, the places you take me to," he drawled, taking a pointed, fuck-you swig of beer. "Can't even get a decent beer in this joint. You should feel honored; I'd never allow this swill past my lips for anyone but present company."

Nate blinked. It couldn't be that easy. There was no way Brad Colbert made it _that easy_. 

"Discriminating about what passes by your lips, are you?" Nate shot back automatically. That was the dangerous thing about Brad; it was all so easy, almost second-nature. Nate just reacted, even when thinking things through would be smarter. 

Evil, childish glee filtered across Brad's face, sounding a drumbeat of anticipation in Nate's gut. Maybe it _could_ be this easy, maybe they were on the same page—

And then Brad's eyes strayed over Nate's shoulder, expression flickering and shutting down. 

Nate turned just as a woman approached them, not the usual bleached blond beach bunny, something serious and studious in her carriage. She was stunning: dark hair, dark eyes, copper skin, wearing a wraparound dress over a bikini. Nate catalogued all these details without thought because if he thought too much about it, he'd have to consider that Brad _knew_ her, that she knew Brad, really well if her awed-relieved-melancholy expression was anything to go by. 

Her gorgeous mouth curved into a welcoming little smile. The emotion even reached her eyes. 

Nate glanced in her open bag: scientific textbook and sunblock. Probably a grad student. 

A grad student that, at some point in the past, Brad had thoroughly, exhaustively bedded. They were gorgeous apart and would've been an order of magnitude more gorgeous together. Nate couldn't help but picture it, felt the zing of the image spark through him, like taking a shot after six sober months in the desert. 

Brad stood as she reached them, Nate following suit, surreptitiously adjusting himself along the way.

She didn't even hesitate, just threw herself into Brad's arms with an exhaled, "You're back," like it was a pleasure and a surprise and a relief all rolled into one. 

Brad hesitated a beat before his arms came up around her. He met Nate's eyes as he held her close. "I am back," he confirmed, valiantly attempting to keep a neutral expression. 

Nate smiled slightly—how Brad loved to think he was inscrutable—but Brad's eyes remained tense. It was only tension, though, no pain or regret, so she couldn't be the storied ex-fiancée. No, she was just a _garden-variety_ ex-girlfriend of Brad Colbert. 

Apparently, those existed. And still held fondness for Brad, given the way she was clinging to his shoulders. Fondness, if not something deeper. 

Nate's stomach churned. 

She pulled back reluctantly, but kept hold of one of Brad's hands. "I'm glad," she said simply. 

Yeah, she would've been good with Brad, Nate decided. Simple honesty, no frivolity, matter-of-fact. Nate idly wondered why Brad wasn't fucking her already. Again.

Or maybe he was. How would Nate know, anyway? He knew so little about Brad. Apparently. 

Brad looked down at her again, then to Nate. "Paige, this is—"

"Nate," he interjected before Brad could define him, knowing full-well that Brad had never addressed him as such. He reached out to shake her hand. She nodded back, eyes flicking to his hair then back to his eyes. 

"You served under Brad?"

Nate's smile widened as he pictured all the filthy places that could go; behind Paige, Brad read his mind, skin almost flushing. "Indeed, I did. He's a hell of a Marine."

"I've no doubt," she said sincerely. "Welcome home, both of you." She turned to look at Brad again. "I worried. I wanted to call, but..."

Brad rolled his shoulders, noncommittal. "We just got back stateside a few weeks ago, so..."

That clinched it: he hadn't been fucking her in the interim. And not for lack of interest on her part. 

Nate watched, fascinated, as Brad shifted under Paige's gaze, discomfort coiling through his frame. He'd never seen Brad so ill-at-ease. 

Maybe because he'd only seen Brad in his Marine Corps context, where he was nothing but supremely confident, thoroughly in his element. 

Dealing with a beautiful woman—a beautiful _ex-girlfriend_ , his mind insisted on reminding him—that was another thing entirely. 

"Right," Paige finally said, acknowledging something they both knew but didn't need to say. "Well, I should get back to it." She turned to look at Nate and he could actually see the regret in her eyes. "It was nice to meet you, Nate. Thanks for looking out for him."

Nate nodded, but stayed silent. 

"As for you," she said to Brad, bumping his wrist with hers, "take care of yourself, okay? You're all skin and bones." She smiled to soften it, but Nate suddenly realized it was true. They'd all lost weight in Iraq; even now Nate could see Brad's collarbones standing out from his skin, the sharpness of his jaw. Compared to what he was before Iraq, the difference must be startling. 

Brad crooked an easy grin that didn't meet his eyes. "Always."

"Bye, Brad," Paige said, wistful, moving away even as the words left her lips. She didn't belabor it, turned and walked off, didn't look back. But she didn't need to. Her melancholy lingered like the scent of salt-spray in the air.

Brad sat back down and reached for his beer. No complaint this time as he took a swig. Nate eyed him and followed suit. Brad obviously wasn't happy that he'd seen that, but Nate found himself uncomfortable for an entirely different reason.

He'd bought into the Iceman image. 

He couldn't quite believe it, hadn't delved too deeply into himself, but Paige had surprised him. Not that she was beautiful or studious or direct. No, that she _existed at all_. 

Everyone knew the Iceman was untouchable, was above silly relationships with women, concerned himself only with the transactional sex offered by whores. The Iceman was the perfect Marine: divested of worldly concerns and honed into a warrior worthy of his reputation, of the grunts' adulation, of Marine Corps legend.

The Iceman was _complete bullshit_. 

Nate was frankly ashamed of himself. He should be above that, he should be able to see the whole of the man. But he'd come to rely on Brad so heavily during the war, both professionally and emotionally, that he'd just...bought the story. 

If he'd been so wrong about Brad in that way...what else was he not seeing? Or idealizing? The thought made him shift in his seat. 

Not that any of this had lessened his dick's interest at all. 

Brad looked up from his now-empty beer, eyes piercing straight into Nate, pinning him to the red vinyl seat. He raised an eyebrow, daring a comment.

Naturally, Nate had to comment.

"An ex-girlfriend of Brad Colbert's. I think I just spotted a unicorn." Nate really hit the mockery, didn't soften it at all. 

He wasn't feeling particularly soft. 

Brad set his bottle down with a precise click. He tilted his head at Nate, like he was a specimen worthy of study. "Let's go back to your place. Nate." 

***

Nate's back hit the door before it closed, his weight slamming it shut as Brad crowded into him with intent, mouth finding Nate's and plundering. 

So much for having a beer and staging a strategic retreat. 

Nate made a noise into Brad's mouth, tried to shove forward into the kiss—

Only to have Brad drive him back, tongue tangling with his own as Brad used his leverage to immobilize Nate against the door. Not that Nate was going anywhere. 

And yet...

Nate turned his head, gasped out, "Brad." 

Brad moved with him, found his mouth again and sucked him into another involved, mind-stealing kiss. Even tasting like shitty beer didn't detract from the experience of Brad Colbert sucking on his tongue and meaning it. He shifted against Nate, bringing their hips into contact, hard cock finding hard cock and letting friction do the rest. 

Nate rutted against him, desperate to peel Brad out of his clothes and get his hands on all the skin that teased him in his dreams, run his teeth along the taunt of his tattoo, find out what could make the Iceman cry out—

Nate stilled. He ducked out from under Brad before he could think about it—because if he thought about it, he'd realize how much he really didn't want to—taking a couple steps away. 

The noise Brad made was a mix of exasperated and frustrated, eyes dark with lust, shirt askew, as he turned and tried to follow, to latch onto Nate's mouth again. 

Nate had to give him credit for single-minded determination.

He fisted a hand in Brad's shirt, hooked a foot around his ankle, and swung him back into the door, effectively reversing their positions. The cheap wood actually shuddered, making Nate spare a brief thought for his landlord. But then Brad flashed a smile that was at least four layers of filthy invitation, keen on Nate joining the struggle, and Nate had to fight to keep himself at arm's length. 

Brad's smile dropped when he finally clocked that Nate wasn't joining the party. "What the fuck?" Brad asked, cheeks flushed, mouth bruised, erection tenting his board shorts. It was fucking _unfair_. 

"We can't."

"The fuck we can," Brad shot back, chest heaving underneath Nate's hand, heartbeats almost palpable.

Nate took a slow, steadying breath and pleaded with his eyes. "If we hop into bed and get right to what promises to be some spectacular sex—" Nate licked his lips. Brad's eyes tracked the move like he was stalking prey. "If we do that, then I'll never get to know you."

That jolted Brad out of his haze of lust. "What the actual fuck are you talking about? You _know_ me." His tone edged toward incensed, as if Nate was calling something sacred into question. 

Nate shook his head and gestured metaphorically toward the diner. "Paige, girlfriend, that awkward teen moment back there? It made me realize I bought into the Iceman bullshit. Me, Brad. _Me_." He pushed at Brad's chest to punctuate his point. 

"So be pissed at yourself," Brad snapped. "Doesn't mean we can't fuck."

"Actually, it does," Nate said, clipped. "I won't let you distract me with fucking." 

Brad blinked at Nate like he did not compute. His mouth was still red. "You're seriously turning down sex right now?" 

"I hate myself kind of a lot for it, but yeah. No sex. We'll...hang out." Nate winced internally as he said it. This whole idea could've been much more artfully laid out if he'd actually taken the time to consider it. 

But if he did that, he might not go through with it, so. 

"So, what, you want to _date_ me?" Brad asked, tone decrying it as a sissy, junior high, New England WASP piece of sentimentality. 

Which wasn't entirely off the mark. 

Nate pasted on a rueful smile and said, light: "Well, when you put it like that it sounds silly."

"It _is_ silly. You're overthinking this." 

Nate shrugged. Maybe so, but that didn't change anything. He let his expression convey the thought. 

Brad made a face. Then he sighed and let his head fall back against the door with a _clunk_. "Fine. But if there isn't gonna be sex, you'd better impress me, Fick."

***

Nate admitted that it was a tiny bit cruel to drag Brad out to Cuyamaca State Park, at the asscrack of dawn, to brutalize him with a thirty-plus mile mountain bike ride...but then, Nate _was_ kind of a dick. 

And Brad did demand to be impressed. 

"This is what you do for fun?" Brad asked as he situated himself on the borrowed bike. "Get dressed up in spandex and parade around on contraptions that poke your junk? It's a little gay, sir."

Nate waited, water stowed, jiggling his leg a little, anxious to get on with it, but still amused at the terrible naiveté on display. Brad had _no idea_ what was to come. 

The thought was downright delightful.

"So are you, Sergeant. Now quit stalling and try to keep up." With that, he slipped on his sunglasses and took off, heading south on East Side Trail. He heard Brad take up position behind him as they headed through the trees, scrub brush and chaparral passing them by as he pedaled toward the East Mesa fire road. 

Nate set a pretty aggressive pace as he attacked the climb. He didn't look back at Brad—that would be actively insulting—but he did keep an ear out, just in case. 

Brad rode behind him, taking deep, even breaths. Even as the incline increased and Nate started to feel the burn in his legs, Brad betrayed no signs of strain. 

They hit the green rolling meadow of Granite Spring Trail, riding north across the stunning slopes, following the single track cut through the field of wildflowers. The vista was almost too beautiful to be real, flower petals fluttering in the day's light breeze, backed by clear blue sky. He knew it would get unbearably hot by the afternoon, but now, still morning fresh, it was nothing less than the perfect southern California day. 

Nate glanced back at Brad to find him scanning the scenery, sweat beading on his upper lip as a tiny smile betrayed him. Nate laughed and refocused on the trail. 

They hooked a right onto Deer Park Trail, taking them into the thick shade of the canopy. They cut around the giant pine trees, flew around switchbacks, weaved between the big rocks studding their path, even got to throw their bikes forward over logs...for miles. Nate knew he had a too-wide grin on his face; at the fun, sure, but also because goddamn if Brad wasn't keeping up. 

Nate headed through the cattle gate, framed by green and brown branches, that served as the official demarcation of Cuyamaca State Park. They flew by the little sign proclaiming they were now on Indian Creek Trail and headed for what Nate knew was going to be a bitch of a climb. 

He shifted his weight forward, lowered his chest, and drove into it, pushing relentlessly onward, around precarious hillside ledges, hugging the edges of dust-colored cliffs, and soldiering up rocky plateaus.

Finally Nate reached the top of the climb, the strain burning his legs and shortening his breath. He paused and spat out the grit of dirt in his mouth. 

He turned to find Brad two plateaus down, back among sand-colored rocks that reminded him sharply of Iraq. Brad...was balancing his bike on one tire, every muscle taut as he held the position, a sheen of sweat making him glow faintly. He jumped the bike up to the next rocky plateau—

And landed on one tire. And held there, perfectly still, the very picture of control. 

"Must you be good at _everything_?" Nate shouted down to him, tired and turned on and disgruntled. Damn him. 

Brad let the bike fall onto two wheels and rode up the rest of the hill. At the top he flashed Nate a cocky-ass grin. "Yes, but only because I know how it turns you on." He leaned close. "If you're going to insist on this little exercise, you get to suffer the blue balls, too, sir."

As if he hadn't already been. Jesus. 

Not that Nate was about to open that door. "Be careful not to castrate yourself with the tricks. I have plans for those balls, you know."

Brad's expression heated, eyes darkening, and Nate felt a jolt of lust echo through him. God, it'd be so easy to—

But no. There was a reason he was doing this and he'd see it through. Even if his fingers itched to find the spots that would make Brad gasp, his mouth dried out at the thought of how Brad would taste, and his dick would not fucking wilt. 

Nate gripped the handlebars and shot Brad a look full of all the promises he intended to keep. Then he sped off, ignoring Brad's muttered curses. 

He opted to stay on Indian Creek Trail, to take a bit of a breather on the downhill portion. He risked a glance back at Brad, who was grinning at the downhill run, elbows and hands relaxed, steering with his body.

So fucking good. At _everything_. 

Nate focused on the trail ahead before he rode smack into something, but damn if Brad wasn't distracting. The fact that Brad took such obvious pleasure in something Nate so loved...it warmed the part of him that didn't want to do unimaginably dirty things to Brad's person. 

He was having trouble dealing with how _much_ he wanted. 

The brush, rocks, and trees blurred by until they hit the Noble Canyon Trail and its unrelenting uphill death march, all shifting dirt and pebbly rocks and desperation. Nate gritted his teeth and pushed through it, hearing Brad panting a little ways behind. Not that either of them were the type to complain. 

They suffered for two miles until they hit the upper trailhead where it met the highway. Nate pulled to the side of the trail for a break, Brad following a moment later. They both unstrapped their helmets, sucking in the clear mountain air. They'd been at it for a while, but it was still early, a bit of that morning nip in the air. Not a cloud in the sky, though. Perfect. 

Nate pulled two cookies-and-cream CLIF Bars and two bananas from his pack, offering one of each to Brad, who nodded his thanks. He was flushed from his cheeks down to his neck and disappearing into his shirt. Nate itched to follow the path with his tongue, see just how far down it went—

Instead he shoved a banana in his mouth. It wasn't nearly as satisfying. 

Brad chewed his CLIF Bar thoughtfully, like it deserved his greatest concentration. He washed it down with some water, then skewered Nate with a look. "Sir, I question your strategic plan."

Nate raised an eyebrow. 

"There's no fucking, but you take me mountain biking, where I have to stare at your ass all day? That's just cruel."

Nate smirked. "Gotta give you some incentive."

Brad's eyes darkened. "To be clear: I need no incentive. I'll follow your course of action because of my unending respect for your unquestionable wisdom, but if you were to change your mind, that rock would be quite amenable to me laying you out and sullying some of your virtue." 

Nate glanced over at the rock—dusty gray, waist-height, flat and wide—and pictured himself splayed out there, Brad moving over him, mountain dirt sticking to sweaty skin as their bodies tangled together, their gasps accompanied only by the wind through the trees.

Nate blinked and shoved the image aside, looking back to Brad. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, hearing the gravelly strain in his own voice. 

Brad's eyes flashed, some kind of triumph. "You do that."

Nate cleared his throat. "For now, instead of focusing on my ass, imagine the apple pie we'll stop for in Julian on the way home."

"Your ass would be better."

"It would," Nate agreed, because he could be cruel, too. Then he strapped on his helmet and mounted his bike once again. 

***

Nate decided he shouldn't have started with a physical challenge. That was a strategic error. They were recon Marines; physical challenges were like candy to them. 

No, Brad needed to be challenged in other ways. 

Ergo, here they were, at a cooking class. Even better, a _baking_ class. It was as far from a testosterone-drenched endurance test as Nate could get. 

On the flip side, they were the only two men in a sea of women, making them the natural targets of some very nosy ladies. 

And typically, Brad turned out to be as perfectly adept at mixing flour and butter as he was at every other fucking thing in his life. Even his sugar cookie dough—which he did not care about _at all—_ was uniformly thin and ideal for cookie creations. The rolling pin didn't even stick.

It was like he was taunting Nate.

In order to evade the more aggressive inquiries, they'd sequestered themselves on stools in the more rundown corner of the room, keeping a distance from the women who gravitated toward the instructor and her demonstration at the shiny metal front oven. They were part of the group, doing what they were supposed to, but it felt like they'd carved out their own separate bubble. 

It felt intimate. 

"So in an effort to 'get to know me,' you're trying to turn me into Betty Crocker?" Brad murmured into Nate's ear, his heat and closeness making Nate shift. "Sir, if you want pussy, I'm sure some of these ladies would happily oblige." His blue eyes sparkled at Nate, goading, having far too much fun at Nate's expense. 

"Betty Crocker wasn't a real person."

"Because that's absolutely the salient point," he replied, still needling, but there was a weightiness underneath his tone now. Like Brad was digging for something here. 

Well. If Brad wanted to play, he could play. 

Nate leaned in. He licked his lips, focusing Brad's attention on his mouth, which he was well aware was a bit of a draw, and pitched his voice low: "Pussy's not what's getting me up in the morning, Brad."

Brad swallowed, expression saying he was a heartbeat away from shoving Nate onto the table and crawling on top of him. Instead he clenched his jaw and locked his muscles. Like if he did that, he wouldn't reach out and take what he wanted. 

Nate's fingers flexed. He rubbed his thighs to distract himself and didn't let any strain show on his face. He leaned away from Brad, then jerked his chin toward the dough. "Now stow your shit and make the fucking cookies."

Brad blinked, once. He shook himself just slightly, then sent Nate a look that said he was asking for it. With that, he grabbed a spoon, upended it, and used the edge of the handle to freeform a very large, very erect cock in the middle of their sugar cookie dough. 

Nate looked longingly at the heart and star cookie cutters. 

Right next to the cock, Brad started detailing a mouth. His eyes flicked from Nate's face to the dough and back again as he etched a design. 

Nate's cheeks flushed, he just knew it. The smirk Brad wore confirmed it.

"Very mature, Brad," Nate muttered. 

"The instructor said to 'release our creativity upon our creations,' such a triumph of diction, Shakespeare is crying inside at his deficiency," Brad informed him, sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife. "I'm simply following her advice and enshrining some Marine Corps staples in sugar cookie form."

"Cocks and mouths: the essential Marine Corps," Nate mused. 

"Well, I could represent the superiority of republicanism as opposed to parliamentary democracies, but I'd need more dough for that."

"Or you could just write, 'America, fuck yeah,' and be done with it."

"As pithy one-liners go, I've heard worse." 

Nate smiled, charmed and helpless to resist it. He felt the instructor approach from behind him and resigned himself.

A careful silence followed as she took in their creation. "Well, that's certainly...unique."

"True to life size," Brad deadpanned, nary a twitch giving him away. 

"That must be painful," she said, mild. 

"You have no idea."

***

If Nate were smarter, he would've kept control of the situation. When Brad turned to him at the local taco stand and said, "These dates go both ways, right?" Nate should've shut that shit right down. 

But he hadn't—because God help him, he was curious what Brad wanted to do. Which was how he found himself on the beach at dawn, having flashbacks to his drownproofing, Corps-style, while Brad hummed to himself and positioned a surfboard on the sand. 

Although Brad wearing half a wetsuit, the upper portion unzipped and pushed down to his waist, that was a bit of a departure from his Marine Corps experience. And thank fuck for that. He could just imagine how the Corps instructors would've appreciated the inconvenient erections. 

The board situated to his liking, Brad waved Nate down. "On your belly."

"Oh, so that's what this is about. You just want to get me on all fours," Nate said as he grudgingly got on the board, aligning himself along the stringer. 

"In any way I can," Brad agreed shamelessly, standing above Nate and looking down. "You're practicing the pop-up here on land before we get you in the water. So, hands flat on the deck like you're going to do a push-up."

"I certainly know how to do those," Nate muttered, following Brad's direction, the wax feeling tacky under his fingers. 

"Push yourself up, arch your back, and bring your feet underneath you all in one motion. Your front foot should be turned out, arch centered over the stringer, while your back foot turns out slightly less. Keep your legs bent. Got it?"

"Sir, yes, sir," Nate snarked. 

"Excellent. Fire at will."

Nate snorted, then did as instructed. He levered himself up, feeling his shoulders flex as he brought his feet underneath him in a passable imitation of a surfer's stance. 

Brad moved in close, fingers touching lightly under Nate's chin, bringing his head up. Nate sucked in a breath, filled with the scent of salt and coconut and _Brad_. 

Nate didn't know there'd be _touching_ involved in this. 

"Chin up," Brad said softly, his fingers disappearing downward. "You should be looking forward, not hunched over the board." 

Then he trailed his fingers to the inside of Nate's left thigh, tapping until Nate turned his knee out further. "Good," Brad said. "Now do it again."

Nate did. And did it again. He kept doing it until his arms started to tire, the sun rising in the sky. 

Through it all, Brad touched him, correcting his posture, leaning in close and invading Nate's space. Every inch of him was sensitized to Brad's proximity. Half his mental energy went to predicting where Brad would touch next, prepping himself so he wouldn't react as his body really wanted to. 

Nate's jaw ached from gritting his teeth and Brad's permanent smirk told him he knew just what effect he was having. Bastard. 

"I thought I was learning to surf," Nate grumbled, shading his eyes and glaring at Brad. In his peripheral, he caught a couple bikini-clad girls admiring Brad as they passed. Nate couldn't even admire the same view, he was so distracted by being half-hard, half-bitter, and entirely frustrated. 

Brad completely ignored the ogling. 

"You are learning to surf," Brad agreed, resolute as ever. He still had the wetsuit half off, all golden and resplendent in the morning sun. It made Nate want to push him down on the sand and climb aboard. It made Nate want to break things. 

Instead he looked back down at the surfboard underneath him. 

"If you say wax on, wax off, I'm hitting you with the board."

"'I say, you do, no question,'" Brad shot back, completely straight-faced. 

"You would've made a great officer; you have the sadism down pat."

Brad grinned as he finally pulled on his wetsuit and zipped it up. "In spite of your insults, you may now proceed into the water. Don't cut anyone off."

"Gee, however would I have known?" Nate grabbed his board and followed Brad into the frigid Pacific, wading out into the shallows until he could lay the board down and hop on. 

He had to admit, practicing on sand made mounting the board second-nature, laying on his belly and using his arms to propel himself through the bone-chilling water, slightly blunted by his wetsuit. The only thing he needed to concentrate on was the rhythm of his stroke, hands cupped, elbows bent. 

And he'd never been so glad for the effect of cold water on his dick. 

Brad took them past the breaking waves, out to calmer sea. No other surfers were out, no one likely to get in their way, undoubtedly why Brad had picked this beach. Of course he'd think of everything. 

Nate mimicked Brad's position, straddling the board and using his arms to steady himself in the water. Brad observed the waves for a moment, a sense of calmness and completeness settling around him. 

He seemed...content. He had an aura of tranquility here that Nate had never seen from him before. Out in the civilian world he always seemed wary, just a little bit on edge, waiting for something to happen. In combat, too, come to think of it. Here he was practically zen. Like he could find peace in the simple fact of being out on a surfboard. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. 

Finally, Brad tore his eyes from the rolling waves, meeting Nate's gaze again. His eyes were impossibly blue, framed as he was by the dark water and bright blue sky. 

"You've bodyboarded before?" Brad asked, like it was a foregone conclusion. 

Nate nodded. 

"We'll start you with that. Surfing's the same basic concept, just on a surfboard and on your feet. Ride the whitewater in the prone position, like you're just about to pop up."

Brad demonstrated. Nate followed his lead, feeling like a little kid, but Brad didn't do things for no reason, so he checked his ego and embraced it. He circled back to Brad, who once again sat on his board, bobbing in the waves and waiting. He seemed like he could do this for forever and a day and be totally fulfilled. 

The water droplets beading on Brad's eyelashes were just unfair. 

"Good," Brad praised with a slow, easy smile. "Now try standing."

Nate waited a beat. "That's it? 'Try standing?' That's your advice?"

Brad gestured him on. "I can't hold your hand forever, sir. You'll be fine. Fly, little bird, fly."

Nate rolled his eyes, but did as he was told, paddling for the next breaking wave, catching the edge of it, carried along its rolling force. He got his hands under his shoulders, pushed up—

And promptly wiped out, right off the side of the board. Nate tumbled into the wave, the world muffled by the frigid rush of water, salt stinging the back of his throat. Where once he would have panicked, his Marine Corps drownproofing had taught him to just go with it. A couple of beats of getting saltwater in every orifice and he was able to surface, coughing and grabbing for his board. 

Chagrined, he turned and headed back to Brad, who sat in exactly the same spot, blue eyes twinkling. 

"Not bad," Brad said. "Maybe this time, try staying on the board."

***

The dates went on from there. They went rock climbing, mocked the organized religion of sports bars, attended an electronics trade show from which Nate might never recover, and on and on. 

At every turn, Brad fucked with him, laying on the innuendo or the ridicule—usually _both_ —yet he continued to humor Nate, with longsuffering tolerance and secret amusement, like Brad knew something Nate didn't. It was maddening. And profoundly enticing. 

Which was how Nate found himself in the grocery store contemplating squash varietals for the dinner he was supposed to cook...an activity that would inevitably end in disaster, he'd already warned Brad. 

Deciding chayote was just too aggressive for him, Nate turned—

And almost got run over by a woman reading produce signs a little too intently. Nate blinked as he recognized Paige, even as he quickly stepped out of her way.

"Sorry, sorry...shit!" Paige said, rescuing her basket before it scattered papaya everywhere.

Nate laughed. "No harm done. Paige, right?"

Paige looked up at him from the wobbling pile of papaya. Her dark hair was tied up in a simple bun, and though her ears were pierced, she wore no jewelry. Everything about her said easiness and sincerity; even in fluorescent lights, she damn-near _glowed_. Especially when she smiled in recognition. "Nate," she recalled. "Brad's friend."

Nate nodded. "Fancy meeting you here."

"The world is just that small," she agreed, something wry slipping into her smile at their little exchange of clichés. Because, really, what _did_ you say? 

The conversation took a pause, edging toward that awkward, 'nice to know you' moment—

And then Nate decided a risk was worth it. After all, he'd probably never see her again. 

"Can I ask a completely inappropriate question?"

"Only if it's _completely_ inappropriate. Mildly inappropriate just won't cut it," she parried easily. 

Nate grinned. He could understand Brad's attraction. Hell, he could understand _Paige's_ attraction. Not that he could volunteer that. And, well, she had given him permission. 

"Why did you and Brad break up?"

Paige half-smiled, a little sad, a little rueful, as she tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. "I wish I knew. I thought everything was going well and then one day in August, he started getting distant with me. More distant than usual, anyway. He ended it after that, said we lived in different worlds."

"August of last year," Nate probed, his pulse picking up as a theory started forming. 

But...it couldn't be. 

"Yeah. I thought it might be the brewing war, but I really don't know." Her forehead creased, troubled by that. Nate's thoughts raced, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out the freeform jazz piped over the store speakers. 

Brad joined his platoon in August. They officially began working together in August. 

Brad broke up with his gorgeous girlfriend in August. 

Right after he met Nate. 

Nate suddenly felt a chill, despite the sunshine pouring through the high windows, the pervasive heat of a southern California summer. 

It seemed crazy. Ludicrous. Brad didn't give anyone the time of day, much less blow up his personal life over a brand new commanding officer. They'd built trust and respect and admiration through long months of hard work. Nate had _earned_ Brad. 

But was it possible that Nate had him right from the start?

Nate suddenly realized that Paige was still looking at him, that he was in public, and he had asked the question. 

He just hadn't expected any life-altering revelations to slam into him in the produce aisle. 

"Sorry," Nate said, trying to seem sympathetic and not mind-blown. 

Paige shrugged, but there was deeper pain behind it. "I know it was a while ago, but it's hard when you know it's your loss. I just had to accept that and move forward."

"Moving forward is all we can do," Nate agreed.

***

Brad walked into Nate's apartment, poking through the grocery bags he held, as if he hadn't already checked to make sure he got everything. "Hey, Nate, I got that horse piss you call beer and some peach cider in case you need to water your ovaries."

Nate rushed him, Brad clocking his attack and then surrendering to it as Nate pushed him back against the door. That tiny thing, that surrender, warmed something inside him, intensifying the heat of finally getting his mouth on Brad's.

The bottles cracked ominously as they hit the door. Brad's free hand grabbed at Nate, trying to haul him closer even as Nate assaulted his mouth. 

Nate broke away, keeping his breath steady by force of will. "I don't think that's how ovaries work, Brad."

Brad licked his lips and stared at Nate. "Sex now?"

"Drop the fucking bags."

Brad did, an even more ominous crash of glass resulting, but Nate couldn't care because Brad was already reaching for him, arms winding around his body and crushing him close. 

They kissed and stumbled toward bed, only getting waylaid once at his bedroom's doorframe, where Brad decided to pin him and start licking over his collarbone. 

Nate tugged at Brad's board shorts and nipped at his ear. "Clothes, off," he said roughly. 

Brad raised his head and stared.

"Unless you want to go back to the dating," Nate clarified. 

Brad wrenched himself back and yanked his shirt up and off in a rush. It was unbearably hot. 

"That's what I thought." Nate finally got into the bedroom and shoved at his own clothes. Brad snagged him from behind and before he knew it, they were falling onto the bed and squirming out of the last of their clothes.

Brad blanketed him, a hot, heavy weight as his mouth found Nate's again. His fingers explored everywhere—up Nate's flank to his armpit, the soft underside of his arm and back again, down across Nate's chest, abs. His touches were light, exploratory, like all he wanted to do was map out Nate's skin. 

Nate groaned. It wasn't even particularly sexual touching and yet every slow slide of fingers felt like it went straight to his cock. 

Brad bit at his mouth, then started nipping his way down Nate's chin, neck, chest as fingers explored lower, skirting Nate's straining dick to trace the muscles in his quads, tug at the hair on Nate's leg.

Nate moaned shamelessly when Brad sucked at a nipple, shock of heat and the edge of teeth setting his nerves alight. He arched, trying to get some kind of contact—

Only to find himself flipped over, cock meeting empty air as Brad got him on all fours.

"Sex now?" Nate growled, knowing he sounded bitchy and not caring. 

Brad ran his hands all along Nate's back and shoulders, mapping the dips, the knobs in his spine. His huff of laughter tickled Nate's lower back, goosebumps following. 

"As I recall," Brad said, languid, scraping his teeth on one side of his spine, then the other, moving up toward his shoulders, "you're the one who insisted on delaying the sex."

"So now that you've got me on hands and knees you decide you want to play with the arch of my foot?" Nate said, voice cracking desperately. 

"That's a good idea," Brad murmured, reversing direction and moving toward Nate's feet. 

"Oh, _fuck, no_ ," Nate said, vehement. He shifted his weight to one arm and got his hand on his own cock, a blissful stroke of sweet relief—

Brad snatched Nate's hand away, pinning it above his head, erection pressed against Nate's ass, tantalizing. Brad tsked in Nate's ear, breath hot and close. 

"Not my fault I have to take matters into my own hands," Nate rasped. 

Brad smiled into his neck and writhed against him, intent on driving Nate out of his mind. "Where's your lube, Nate?"

Nate looked at the bedside drawer. 

Brad reached for it with one hand, the other continuing to slide over Nate's skin, no pattern discernible in the movements. He raked his blunt nails down Nate's back as Nate heard the snick of the Astroglide bottle opening. He pushed his fingertips into the muscles at the base of Nate's skull as he stroked a single, cold finger into Nate's ass. 

" _Fuck_ ," Nate hissed, arching toward and away simultaneously. 

"Still need to take matters into your own hands? I don't know if you could reach here," Brad said conversationally as he pressed another finger inside Nate and crooked both. 

Nate's elbows buckled, the shiver of pleasure making him tremble and bite his tongue, unable to answer. 

"That's what I thought," Brad confirmed, giving him the third finger while his other hand explored Nate's shaking arms.

Then Brad was gone, both hands taken away, Nate breathing in, startled at the lack of sensation. He used the time to ground himself, remember that he wasn't a quaking teenager. Not that it did much good given the tremors shuddering through him. 

Brad returned, slick press of his cock at Nate's entrance all the warning he got before Brad was pushing inside him. Their moans mingled as Nate blissed out at the gorgeous shock of feeling Brad inside him. Finally. 

He must've verbalized part of that because Brad laughed, hoarse, and rubbed his chin against Nate's back. "Your own fault," he said and his voice actually sounded labored, like he was clinging to a tiny thread of control. 

"Fucking _move_ ," Nate ordered. 

Brad did, fucking into him, holding Nate's hips steady as he flowed in and away, spinning Nate's mind to their surfing lesson and the inexorable advance and retreat of the waves. It was gradual but still forceful; it left Nate feeling hollowed out and exposed. Brad's hands were moving again, in counterpoint to his thrusts, soft contrasting with hard, then switching, and back again. 

Nate made helpless noises and tried to provide some kind of counterpoint, but Brad made it impossible, like a fucking force of nature. 

He felt Brad press a hand down on his neck, and Nate went willingly, gladly, lowering his face and chest to the bed. Brad kept his ass arched, fucking him at that maddening, relentlessly slow pace even as he completely covered Nate's body with his own, thigh to thigh, chest to back. He pressed sucking kisses behind Nate's ear, ran a hand down Nate's arm, and tangled their fingers together.

Nate made some kind of noise, then, beyond grateful to have the mattress there to muffle it.

Brad's hand finally moved from his hip, dipping in to find his aching cock. "Just let go, Nate," Brad breathed into his ear. 

Nate did, orgasm slamming into him like a crashing wave, complete sensory white-out, tumbling down into the endless, sightless abyss. 

***

After, Nate panted, the taste of cotton in his dry mouth as he tried to swallow. Tried to get ahold of himself. 

Brad smoothed his hands over Nate's skin, more meditative than arousing, and eventually pulled himself away, letting Nate slump, a shaken, incoherent mess. 

He'd expected to be fucked like a Marine—hard and fast, headboard denting the wall, cries disturbing the neighbors. He had not expected to be fucked like a _lover_ , all glorious, overwhelming intimacy. 

In the clarity of afterglow, Nate knew with absolute certitude that no sex would ever top that. And he didn't quite know how to handle it. 

Brad rolled off the bed and padded softly away. He reappeared a moment later, climbing over Nate to settle on his other side, the sound of a bottle opening, cap bouncing off the bedside table. 

"Rescued one," Brad murmured. 

Nate turned his head, watched as Brad took a sip. He caught sight of the label and sluggishly grabbed for the bottle. 

"You actually bought peach cider?"

"Ace is the shit," Brad shot back, completely serious. 

Nate stared at him for a moment—

And then dissolved into helpless, exhausted laughter. He didn't know what he was going to do with this endearing, inexplicable man. 

Brad smiled at him, pleased with himself, the world, something. 

"I take it the sex was worth the wait?" Nate asked.

"Mmm, passably," Brad allowed, settling deeper into the pillows and looking supremely relaxed. 

Nate smiled, then ran his thumb along the blue vein of Brad's inner arm. "I ran into Paige today," he said, keeping his tone light. 

Brad didn't move, but the flicker in his eyes gave him away. "Did you."

"She told me when you guys broke up. August, Brad? From the start?"

Brad smirked. "I can't imagine what you mean."

Nate just continued touching Brad, stroking up to the soft spot inside his elbow. "I did wonder why you indulged me in this."

Brad looked at him steadily for a moment...and then his expression softened. He shifted and touched the pads of his fingers to the thin skin on the inside of Nate's arm. He seemed to weigh something before he eventually gestured between them. "This got real and you freaked out on me. It happens."

"Not to you."

Brad snorted. "I lost my shit ages ago. I've just been waiting for you to catch up." He slid down, tugging the covers around him. "Worried that you don't know me, Nate? Don't be. I know you."

Nate thought back to Paige, to the Iceman façade, to August, and knew he'd seen past all Brad's protective layers. And he'd found exactly the same man he'd known before. "I don't worry, Brad. I know you, too."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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